"Not a dollar! What is the good of your going on like that? You ought to know me well enough by this time."
"But you do not know me well enough. You must have taken me for a very tame sort o' critter."
"Perhaps I have."
"Maybe you'll change your mind."
"Perhaps I shall. It is quite possible that you should murder me. But you will not get any money by that."
"Murder you. You ain't worth murdering." Then they sat in silence, waiting another hour and a half till the steamboat came. The reader will understand that it must have been a bad time for Mr. Peacocke.
They were on the steamer together for about twenty-four hours, during which Lefroy hardly spoke a word. As far as his companion could understand he was out of funds, because he remained sober during the greater part of the day, taking only what amount of liquor was provided for him. Before, however, they reached St. Louis, which they did late at night, he had made acquaintance with certain fellow-travellers, and was drunk and noisy when they got out upon the quay. Mr. Peacocke bore his position as well as he could, and accompanied him up to the hotel. It was arranged that they should remain two days at St. Louis, and then start for San Francisco by the railway which runs across the State of Kansas. Before he went to bed Lefroy insisted on going into the large hall in which, as is usual in American hotels, men sit and loafe and smoke and read the newspapers. Here, though it was twelve o'clock, there was still a crowd; and Lefroy, after he had seated himself and lit his cigar, got up from his seat and addressed all the men around him.
"Here's a fellow," said he, "has come out from England to find out what's become of Ferdinand Lefroy."
"I knew Ferdinand Lefroy," said one man, "and I know you too, Master Robert."
"What has become of Ferdinand Lefroy?" asked Mr. Peacocke.